


Need and Pressure

by SpicyCheese



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Crack? Apparently? :), Humor, I have no idea what to tag this with because... well you'll see, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 03:03:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2797241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicyCheese/pseuds/SpicyCheese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Yes. Right..." John rubs his hands together quickly, nervously, warming them up with friction. He looks at Sherlock's naked back before him and almost instinctually reaches out, running his hand gently over the pale canvas of skin. "Have you ever let... I mean to say, has anyone ever..."</p><p>"No." Sherlock says, his previous brashness having softened significantly. "No one has. You're the... first actually." There's a note of awe in his voice, of quiet surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Need and Pressure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scullyseviltwin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/gifts).



*_*_*_*_*

 

"Sherlock, take your shirt off..."

"I hardly think that's necessary when I could just pull the shirt up."

"I didn’t say it was _necessary_. I want it off because I _want_ it off,” John replies, smiling from his spot standing behind Sherlock. "And considering I'm the one that knows what they're doing here..."

" _That_ has yet to be seen...” Sherlock shoots a furtive glance over his shoulder.

John merely raises an eyebrow in response. Sherlock huffs in mock contempt but, in the end, complies and strips the shirt off briskly. Roughly.

"That's better, now come here..." John says, smug in his small victory.

Sherlock backs up a pace so John is now right behind him. Only a half a foot away.

"You ready?" John asks.

"Must you draw this out?"

"Look," John sighs, the soft exhalation a practiced exercise for him by now. “I really don’t appreciate the attitude. If you’ll recall, _you’re_ the one that approached _me_ in the first place."

"Oh please, John. It's not as if it was out of the blue--I caught you _starring_ yesterday. Don’t deny that you weren't already considering this. You all but _leapt_ at the suggestion when I made it." Sherlock intones.

"Fine! Fine. But what did you _expect_? You walk through the flat in nothing but a towel two days in a row this week... I was bound to take notice. I was bound to want to... you know... _Anyway_ , it doesn't matter. Here we are."

"Yes. _Here we are_ ,” Sherlock says, pointedly.

"Yes. Right..." John rubs his hands together quickly, nervously, warming them up with friction. He looks at Sherlock's naked back before him and almost instinctually reaches out, running his hand gently over the pale canvas of skin. "Have you ever let... I mean to say, has anyone ever..."

"No." Sherlock says, his previous brashness having softened significantly. " _No one_ has. You're the... first actually." There's a note of awe in his voice, of quiet surprise.

"Okay. Well then... uh... you can expect some pressure. And I won't lie, it's going to hurt... but I promise it's worth it."

" _On_ with it then... lord knows the buildup is torture as it is."

"Right...." John had no more laid hands on Sherlock's back, before he detected a slight intake of breath. "And you're _sure_ about-"

" _Yes_... I... I want this. I want _you_... to do this." Sherlock heaves the heavy words past his lips with an effort not lost on John. John swallows thickly and nods, though part of him registers that Sherlock's back is still to him, unable to see the gesture. He scoots closer, and can feel his breath ricocheting back at him off of Sherlock's skin. John grazes a hand over Sherlock’s back once more. "You're tense..."

"I'm not _tense_..."

"Sherlock, I'm a doctor. I know anatomy. And what's more, I have eyes. Every muscle in your body is tensed and trust me when I say, it's going to make it that much worse..."

"I _hardly_ think..." Sherlock’s starts, but thinks better of it and stops himself. "Fine. Carry on."

"Here we go..."

Sherlock braces as John begins to press into him slightly, but can’t help but jerk forward a bit.

"Really?” John huffs. “I'm barely... it _can't_ be hurting yet."

"John, I have been strangled, shot, and beaten within a an inch of my life. Stop being concerned about _hurting_ me!"

"Well, I won’t have to if you’d stop being such a _baby_. You're going to need to work with me here. It'd help if you pressed back towards me actually. You know, if you would just lean back _into_ it, it would make it easier."

"Oh _would_ it?" Sherlock bites back, and John doesn’t have to see his face to picture the eye roll that accompanies it. John has had enough.

"You know, what? This was a mistake." John shakes his head, throwing up his hands as he steps back, making a move to go.

Sherlock’s hand snaps out blindly behind him lighting quick, grabbing John’s wrist and impeding his escape. "John..." Sherlock’s voice grinds like gravel, rough in its sincerity. The tone alone holds John in place. "Please, proceed... I want you to."

"Okay," John says quietly, resuming his place behind the detective. "Here we go."

John moves closer and begins to press again but this time the body under his hands does not give way. Sherlock is firm, presses back towards him. John takes this as a go ahead, and begins to press harder.

The pressure builds and Sherlock sucks air through gritted teeth as it moves from dull to a sharper pain, towards a focused pinpoint.

"Are you _sure_ -" Sherlock growls in starts and stops, through controlled exhales, "-that it's supposed. To hurt. _this_ much?"

"I'm a doctor for Christsake! _Trust me_!" John yells, brow furrowed in concentration at the task at hand.

"I have. _Always_. Trusted. You." Sherlock grits out and for a moment John almost waivers, almost goes weak, the words pushing back at him as strongly as the body in front of him. John shakes this aside, refocuses with a deep breath though, and presses harder still, sensing the end is near. "Almost there..."

"Ggggrrrrrggggh!" Sherlock’s groan starts low and rips into a howl, peaking in time rush of fluid and with John’s triumphed shout of " _Got it_!"

And in a blink, _in a second_ , it is over. Sherlock staggers forward a few paces, grabbing the table in front of him. His shoulders sag as his body begins to untangle itself from the tension, from the release.

The sound of John's satisfied chuckle follows from back to front as he rounds to face Sherlock once more. "See? _Worth it_. How do you feel? Good?"

Sherlock notes to himself that the sharp pain and pressure from before is slowly dissipating, leaving only a lightly throbbing ghost of a sensation in its place. He chuckles lowly, "I don't believe they taught you _that_ in medical school..." John swears he sees a hint of smile play on Sherlock’s lips.

"I'll take that as a _yes_." John smirks--crossing his arms, satisfied--as the detective slowly collects himself, grabbing the shirt he'd previously discarded. "You may want to consider washing off a bit. Warm water helps," John adds.

"I appreciate your concern however I believe I'll let it be for now. It's tender as it is."

"I can imagine...” John purses his lips, his gaze dropping to his feet, hesitant to continue. “You know, I’m really glad you asked. I’m glad you trust me enough. I never thought we’d come to a point where, well, where we’d be _this_ close, you know?” He looks up again, meeting Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock returns the look, and suddenly John is self-conscious. He clears his throat. “Anyway, yes. Always happy to lend a hand. And now you'll know what to expect next time..."

"What makes you think I'll ask for _your_ help again next time?" Sherlock replies distractedly, his attention already fixed on a newspaper he's examining.

John huffs and rolls his eyes, as he trudges off towards his room. "Fine! Next time you need a zit on your back popped, you can just ask Mrs. Hudson!"

 

*_*_*_*_*


End file.
